Marriage of Equals
by crazyidea-inc
Summary: Sybil and Branson argue over what to do as the Irish War for Independence begins to pick up speed. T for a bit of language.


Tom swore.

He was late. He was so very, very late. And Sybil was going to skin him alive.

He'd had a half-hearted hope that she would have gone to bed, but as he slipped in the backdoor, he could hear the ceiling above him creaking with her steps. He swore again, under his breath, and mentally steeled himself before slinking up the stairs. He thought about just getting it over with and calling her name, but his tongue was not cooperating. He reached the landing, wincing with every footfall. A flash of movement caught his eye. He peeked over the banister.

He could just see her through the half-open door to the baby's room, hair in a messy braid and eyes exhausted. She was singing softly, Violet in her arms. He stopped, greeting dying in his throat. Her distracted smile was arresting; his heart flopped to see any smile on her face after so many months of anxiety and frustration.

Her breeding was never more prevalent than when she was caught off her guard, for it was then that her natural grace emerged, unencumbered by expectation or decorum. What a simple figure she cut, no jewels, no grand dress, just a woman and her child, swaying in a patch of moonlight. Yet in the slope of her neck, in the parting of her lips, something intangibly elegant gleamed. Her eyes, too used to tears of late, glowed despite their weariness. When was the last time he'd seen a real smile from her? Weeks? Months?

"Over in Killarney, many years ago, my mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low," she whisper-sang, her voice a little shaky, but Tom's breath caught to hear it. "Just a simple little ditty, in her good old Irish way, and I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me this day." He knew this song; his sister had sung it to her boy after the raid on the airfield just outside of Dublin, and his mother had hummed it when he was little and sick, though the words had been different.

Violet reached a hand up to her mother's face, fingers curling against Sybil's mouth.

"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…too-ra-loo-ra-li," she crooned against the baby's palm. Violet giggled, squirming with pleasure.

Sybil always claimed that she had no musical talent whatsoever. "Runs in the family," she'd say with a wicked smile and wave off Tom's protestations good-naturedly. He wished she could hear her as he heard her now, a clear, bell-like soprano, like the first lungful of the early morning air.

"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, too-ra-loo-ra-li. "

"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby," Tom finished quietly with her, his rumbly bass cracking a bit. Sybil whipped her head to him, eyes huge. For a moment, the only sound in the heavy silence was Violet talking to herself. At last, the room filled with air again, and Sybil laid Violet gently in her crib, the line of her shoulders tense.

"You're back," she commented, hands deftly tucking the blanket around their child.

"Worried, were you?" Tom asked with a weak attempt at humor. Sybil straightened slowly, eyes burning. Without a word, she took his arm and led him out of the room, closing the door behind them with a terrifying placidity. Her expression as she turned to face him, however, was anything but calm.

"Kitchen," she said in a barely controlled, clipped tone. "Now."

He obeyed without question, and she followed behind him, making him put his back to her. Waves of fury pulsated from her, like a storm or heat, tangible forces that pressed against his back, drove him down the stairs. As they reached the kitchen, he turned, hands open in conciliation.

She slapped him. Hard.

"You bastard," she hissed as he touched his jaw carefully, gaping at her. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Sybil - "

"Where have you _been_?" she demanded, eyes blazing.

"I was - "

"Don't you dare lie to me - I know where you've been, you've been at one of those - those - _damned _IRA meetings!" she cried; he backed away from her, overwhelmed by the sheer power of her rage. "After the raid down the street? After you broke your collarbone in that riot? Still, Tom? Even now, when we have Violet?" He bumped into the kitchen table; he was well and truly backed into a corner.

"Sybil, I've got to help - " he tried again, but she jabbed a finger into his chest. He bent away from her over the table, the edge of the table digging into his lower back. She was less than half a foot from his face, flushed with fury.

"Absolutely not!"

"These are my _people_," Tom exploded, well and truly angry now. "We have a chance for our freedom, for a better life - I want that for Violet, I want her to live in a safe, free Ireland. I don't want her to grow up being looked down on because of the way she talks!" Sybil didn't seem to even hear him; she was out of control, as out of control as he'd ever seen her.

"Do you know how _scared _I was? I was _out of my mind_! _Anything _could have happened to you - you could have been shot, jailed - killed! You could be lying in the street, _dead_, Tom! And I would have - I would have no idea - "

Abruptly, she closed the gap between them with a fierce, desperate kiss. Brain fizzing wildly, he responded immediately, pulling her onto her tiptoes to meet him until the world spun dizzily.

"Please," she gasped when they broke apart. "Please, don't go again." She pressed her forehead against his, mouth tight. He shut his eyes.

"All right," he whispered. "All right." She let out something like a sob of relief, wrapping her arms around his neck, distraught. "_A cuisle, _all right." He could feel her uneven breath just under his ear, her cheek warm against the crook of his shoulder.

They stayed that way for awhile, clinging to each other, finding their balance again.

"We'll go to Downton," Tom said quietly. Sybil was silent. "It's getting worse out there. I don't want you and Violet in danger." Her drew her head out, cupping her head so that his thumbs rested on the tender skin behind her ears. "Is that what you want?" She grasped his hands, closing her eyes. She nodded.

"Just until it's all over," she said, barely audible. "I know you want to do your part, Tom, I know. But if you were" - her voice wobbled - "if you were killed, I don't know what I would do."

"Survive," Tom said simply. "You always do. And d'you really think my mother would let you and Violet starve?" Her brow furrowed.

"I'd much rather survive _with_ you," she said quietly.

"Look at me, _mo chuisle,_" he said steadily. She opened her eyes; a tear slipped down her cheek. "You cannot possess me for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give." Another tear escaped, then another. "You cannot command me, for I am a free person. But I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand."

"I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night, and the eyes into which I smile in the morning," she mouthed with him. "I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. I shall not slander you, nor you me.

"I shall honor you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in private and tell no strangers our grievances. This is my wedding vow to you.

"This is the marriage of equals."

XXX

note: the song is "an irish lullaby." it was popularized by bing crosby, but the tune is a folk one, and the lyrics were written by j. r. shannon in the late 1800s.

_a cuisle _means "pulse," _mo chuisle, _"my pulse."

the lines at the end are traditional celtic wedding vows. also, just because it's interesting, do a little research on the irish war for independence.

i hope branson does what i had him do and stays safe; knowing downton, however, it's bound to be traumatizing. on a happier note: wouldn't it be lovely if sybil _did_ name her first girl after the dowager countess? :)


End file.
